


On Edge

by GypsySisters



Category: The OA (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, HOAp, canon divergent... or is it?, villain x heroine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 03:49:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13673652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GypsySisters/pseuds/GypsySisters
Summary: Hap tries to rationalize bringing Prairie upstairs, until things start falling apart.





	On Edge

Prairie was starving. The pellets that dropped into her cage piled up, one after another. She couldn’t bear to eat them. She couldn’t find a way to acclimate. She was starving, and it was not just a hunger in her belly. She was starved of stimulation. She was starved of companionship. Even when she dreamed, her mind was blank, as if, for once in her life, there was no future left to haunt her sleep. The future was simply dark.

Yes. She’d had one moment in the sun, and it had opened her wilting body like leaves responding to first light. The fresh air wafted over her face like a musk, the sounds of birds chattering reminded her that life went on outside these walls, reminded her what it was like to feel real. But then it was over. She was back underground, shriveling up in the cold, locked away from more than just her freedom. She was ostracized by the other captives, as well.

Sometimes she’d pretend to sleep in the desperate hope that they might talk amongst themselves, but it rarely worked. It was as if they knew she craved contact even more than air, and, bitter with their own aches, they refused to sympathize with her. She felt the hostility underlying their silence. She didn't trust the water anymore, always worried that it would be foul, so she drank less and less. She was uneasy all the time. Would the darkness ever end? Would she ever feel anything other than dead air?

The isolation was making her go insane. The only thing she had to cling to was the memory of Papa. She thought of him watching her, just as he'd watched her board her plane when she was fleeing the Voi. Even as a child, she didn’t cry. She’d walked to the top of the loading stairs, turned out to where she hoped he was watching her, and waved. Even though so much more separated them now, she believed that the best way to honor him was to cling to that same sense of bravery, to stand at the edge of the unknown, burying her feelings under the weight of her darkest fears, and dive into the abyss.

When she awoke on her cot, confused about her surroundings, forgetting that she was not at home, Hap sucked his teeth as he watched those... animals... on the monitor: laughing at her ignorance, mocking her pain to mask their own. When she tried to engage them in chatter, they ignored her. It's no wonder that when her food dropped into her cell she barely registered it, too depressed, probably, to eat. He needed her to eat. He'd done the calculations. He knew the pellets would leave them at the brink of survival, but it was just enough nutrition to keep them going, just the right balance to keep them on this side of death's door so he could keep bringing them back, so that he wouldn't have to lose any more of them.

But if she wouldn't eat? And if they wouldn't meet her other needs?

Frustrated with himself, he took responsibility for their actions. He’d caused this the first time he'd brought her upstairs. If he had left her alone, she could have become one of them, but he’d singled her out, and now Prairie was living her life in a black silence. It broke him, tore his carefully calculated plans wide open. Uncertain of the end results, he allowed her to come back upstairs again and again.

He tried to rationalize it. She was blind; she needed the sunlight, when the others didn't. She was weaker; she wouldn't survive without extra care. If she didn't eat, she'd be useless to the study. She was special; she'd wanted to be here, so he could trust her.

Of course, the way she tapped into some long abandoned mine of feeling deep within his disused heart was not even on the list. When was the last time someone had cooked for him? When was the last time he'd been a caretaker in return? Not since he was a teenager, a child, really, like a boy lost inside an adult's body. But even if he was grappling with how her presence was a light leading him out of his caves, he still clung to her like she was his lantern, and he knew how fragile and special she was, wanted her to need him to protect her.

To justify the indulgence, he put her to work around the house. She astonished him again and again. Never before had he encountered a blind person who was so competent at each new task set before her. It excited him. She was so unique, so singularly capable, and he wondered at what mysteries they might be able to discover, what truths they might have a chance at revealing. Even so, what he enjoyed most was the ordinary clatter of her nearby while he sat at his desk, catching glimpses of her in the kitchen while he worked. Nothing about his life had ever felt ordinary. His calling was a lonesome and arduous one. But with her nearby?

In the evenings, when the sun was warm and bright, the rays caught in her hair, casting a crown of gold around her face. These moments pulled at a deep longing within him for a sense of domesticity he never knew as a youth. He could almost pretend he lived a normal life.

He’d blush, despite himself, and turn back to the task at hand, chiding himself for the indulgence. He reminded himself that he had chosen his work, that he would always choose his work. Some people were not meant for happiness. People like him did not deserve it.

At times like these she knew he was watching her. It was like she had a sixth sense about him, about his presence, about the rhythms of his life, even the beatings of his heart. She had sensed the connection the first time they met, and it had felt eerie to her even then, eerie enough that she tried to walk away, intimidated by the intimacy she could feel with a complete stranger. But if he was strange, they were strange together, cut from the same cloth.

On this particular day, she'd been cleaning up around the house, and was now busy with the last of the dishes. It was warm and the late autumn light was hot against her skin as she toiled away. She could sense him hovering near his desk, trying to pass unnoticed, staring longer than usual, so she pretended she didn't know he was there.

Standing over the sink, warm and sweaty from the chore, she rinsed the suds off her hands. Then, standing in the warmth of the sun, she chose not to wipe her hands on her apron, but instead stretched in the light, her feminine silhouette stretching underneath her apron as she ran her wet hands over her neck, cooling her clammy skin. When she turned her face into the sun, soaking up the feeling of freedom while she could still pretend it existed, the water trickled down her skin, wetting the back of her cotton dress. Lost in the moment, she breathed in deeply.

Hap turned away when he heard the melody of her sigh, the sound of her pleasure making his throat dry. He unbuttoned his collar, swallowed his nerves before glancing back at her, allowing his gaze to take liberties under the cover of her blindness. Her innocence was disarming. For a brief moment he imagined she belonged there of her own will, and he lost himself in a fantasy: she was his, and they built this home together, her tending to the house while he tended to his work, and in the evenings they would sit together and at night sleep side by side…

While he daydreamed, she returned to her task. As she lifted a plate out of the soapy water, it slipped through her hands, shattering to the floor.

Immediately she was on her knees, scrambling to pick up the pieces. “I'm so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Hap was kneeling by her side in an instant, “Are you alright?”

She was such an idiot. She had to make it right. She couldn’t lose these moments out of her cage. “It’s ok. I can clean it up.”

“Oh, God, Prairie. You’ve cut your hand on the shards.” He tried to get her to calm down, but she wouldn’t listen.

“I’m ok. I’m ok.” Kneeling on the kitchen floor, amidst the broken porcelain and splatter of dishwater, she didn’t even register her wound, didn’t even realize that she was bleeding all over the very floor she was trying to clean up.

He grabbed her arms, steadying her. “Sweetheart, calm down.”

The term of endearment sliced the air between them. Immediately, she obeyed. Surely it was a mistake, a slip of the tongue. She lifted her chin, slowly, silhouetted by sunlight. Lips parted, ever so slightly, over irregular breaths, she said nothing. She rarely did, and- yet- he always seemed to read her mind, all the same. Eyes fluttering. Listening. Waiting.

Shifting his weight, he grabbed a clean dishtowel off the counter and then held her wrist, resting her hand in his, dabbing away the blood to examine the cut. Pressing the towel into the wound, he instructed her, “Hold this here. Apply pressure.” She nodded and followed his instructions. Did he even realize what he’d called her?

She felt like she was standing on the edge of a cliff, outside the guardrail, against all permissions, just waiting for something to pull her over the edge. She didn't have the guts to take the leap by herself. Or, rather, she didn't know how to, as if she'd lost track of her legs

Hap could immediately tell something was wrong. What had he said? Oh, fuck …Realization washed over him like ice water as he played the words over in his mind. Carefully, even as he broke into a cold sweat, he watched a subtle myriad of emotions play on her face. Her initial confusion slipped into something deeper, and he could feel her nerves being pulled as tight as the strings on her violin.

He wanted to take it back, or comfort her in the very least. But the words couldn’t be unsaid, and doubts plagued him. Prairie wouldn’t accept the crumbs from his table.

Silently, he unlocked the cabinet where he kept his medical supplies, retrieving a first aid kit. Then, his hand at her shoulder, he guided her. “There is space to your right. You can shift your weight, stand. Keep applying pressure to the wound. That’s right. Now step back. Good. You’re clear from the wreckage. “ He chuckled, trying to lighten the mood, trying to pretend that That Word had not passed between them. Maybe he was reading her wrong. Maybe she didn’t notice.

Not only had she noticed, the term crashed through her, shattering her like ice to reveal a current of dark mystery swimming under the surface.

He washed his hands, then was at her side, rummaging around in his kit. “Let me take a look,” he took her small hand into his much larger one. The wound was superficial, but there was still quite a bit of blood. As he cleaned the area around the cut. In no time at all, too little time, in fact, he’d dressed the wound, placed a bandage on her palm, and he was done. He snapped up his kit and left it on the counter. He noticed she looked a little pale.

“Do you want to take a break? I have a spare room.” It could be her room, he thought. He could set it up for her, if she needed to stay upstairs for awhile longer. He’d unpack the box he'd saved from his grandmother and fill her life with beautiful things, soft things, things with wonderful textures, flowers that smelled like the changing seasons. If only…

He stepped forward and reached for her, and just as quickly pulled his arms back, sucking his teeth in disgust at his own impertinence. His gaze flitted over her bandaged hand, the blood-smeared apron, her nubby sweater, the steam rising from the sink … anything but her wide, blue eyes.

Desperate to regain her usefulness to him, she felt for the counter and moved towards the corner where he kept his broom. But what she didn’t anticipate was that the cabinet Hap had unlocked was wide open. She bludgeoned into it, knocking her head against the wooden door and falling backward.

“I’ve got you, Sweetheart. I’ve got you.” He reached out to catch her, his hands supporting her from the small of her back. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” He cradled her head in his hand and checked her dilating pupils. Was she about to faint? What mysteries were hiding within her mind?

She tried to keep herself still as she felt a wave of electricity course through her body. His fingers were in her hair, supporting her head, and she knew his eyes were upon her, pouring over her face. Her mind went blank and she felt her knees get weak. She needed to keep control. She couldn't lose her self control. But him calling her a term of endearment was too much. She was in danger of drowning in an abyss of feeling.

He switched out of his medical mindset long enough to register the blush stain her cheeks crimson and realized he'd done it again, dammit. He released her suddenly, as if the touch had suddenly scalded him, and backed away, porcelain crunching underfoot. He couldn't stop himself today. His mind, or whatever was left of it anymore, wouldn't shut off this fondness he had for her. She regained her footing clumsily, feeling shocked at the sudden loss of contact.

The fantasy was back, and it was trying to make itself real. Maybe he could have both: the experimentation and her companionship. If only she would submit herself to him, allow him to care for her, he would move heaven and earth to nurture her, make her feel safe enough to allow him to push her to her limits, help her realize her truest identity. Maybe it would work. Maybe. With her he dared to dream it could be possible.

“Why don't you rest for a moment. Allow me to clean up the mess. Maybe...maybe we could have a bite to eat afterwards. I could make something this time.” He smiled, trying to win her over.

But she couldn't let him serve her. She was desperate to cling to their roles: captor and captive. She needed to believe that was all they were to one another, because if she allowed herself to feel any other way for him she knew that was a bottomless pit she'd never crawl out of.

She stumbled backwards, losing track of her surroundings. He was her only anchor point in the room, and she felt the inevitability of her pull to him. His presence carved out an ache inside of her. It was a gravity deeper than death.

“I want to. Please, allow me to do this for you.”

She looked even more pale now than before. Small sweat droplets were on her nose and upper lip. Her apron was stained with water and blood, but she didn't seem to pay any of it any mind. She pursed her lips.

Hap sighed as her lips came together in a slightly petulant pout. In a moment of insanity, he sighed again as he brushed a strand of hair from her face. It was damp and felt like silk in his fingers when he tucked it behind her ear.

As his fingers grazed her skin, an unexpected hunger was unlocked within her. She felt a wave of delight wash over her, and the reaction confused her. Why would she crave her captor’s touch? No. The desire scared her.

The expression on her face emboldened him. Did she...like it? He could see her expression flower at his touch, could hear her breathing become excited. She was so close to giving in, and he was so close to seeing the girl in the oyster bar again. Ever the scientist, he hoped a little experimentation wouldn't hurt.

Intentionally, this time, he spoke, “Tell me what you want, Sweetheart.”

She was melting. His words were oxygen and they hit her like hot flame.

He searched her face, then his gaze raked down her features, resting on the memory of curves hidden under her apron. He brought his fingers to her neck, found the knot she'd tied there, and loosed it, then untied the knot around her waist, allowing the dirty article of clothing to drop to the floor.

She gasped.

For a moment, the pleasure of unraveling her coursed through him like a hit from the purest drug. He felt the blood rush through his body.

He stood there examining every inch of her. Her clothes were sweaty, clinging to her body, her shirt pressed back behind her dress. It would be no trouble at all, really, to slip the spaghetti straps off her shoulders. The floral fabric could fall to the floor, and he could peel the jersey cotton from her clammy skin, could finger the delicate lace of the bra she wore underneath. He could finger so much more…

Slowly, he let his mind loose in the fantasy from before. He slipped his hand behind her back, leaned into her, and let his lips rest against her forehead as he pulled her body against his.

Stomach to stomach, she felt the way her body fit perfectly into his as his hand pressed against the small of her back. She willed her hands not to explore, reached out to steady herself against the counter behind her, but her resolve was crumbling.

He couldn't believe it. She didn't push him away. Rather, she was brimming over with feeling. Was it possible? Could she truly feel for him? Even after...after he...after what happened? After he took her, kidnapped her, stole her away? He wore his desire for her nakedly on his face, aware that her blindness afforded him a freedom he'd never known he needed before.

“Tell me to stop,” he pleaded.

She took in a shaky breath as he pulled her inevitably closer, his hips pressing her against the counter, while his hand traveled slowly up her spine. This wasn't right. It wasn't right. He was her captor. Her kidnapper. He had complete control over her. It wasn't right. None of it was right. So how did her hands end up on his shoulders? She rubbed her fingers over the texture of his shirt, felt the structure of his frame underneath. Why did his musky scent make her brain go numb? She should have feared him, fled him, pushed him away. But as he trailed his lips over her forehead, running his nose past her temple, till he was ghosting his mouth over her neck, it was all she could do to keep herself from unraveling.

Why did pleasure feel so much like pain?

A tear escaped her eye, making its way down her cheek.

His hands traveled over her ribs, holding her closer. He could feel her breasts press into him, was acutely aware of her femininity. “Tell me to stop, and I will.” He whispered frantically, his lips moving against her pulse. The salt of her sweat met his lips, and the taste was more addicting than his countless cigarettes. If only she would defy his plea, give him permission, allow him to truly kiss her...oh...he ached to kiss every inch of her subtle skin. Her skin was so soft, so endlessly sweet. Her body was so full of death and life, so many unanswered questions to explore.

Why had he ever taken her downstairs? He could have just as easily taken her to the spare room, studied her without her knowing, thanks to the gas. But he had to ruin it, just like he ruined everything in the end.

“Please tell me to stop …”

But she didn't. She couldn’t. Paralyzed on the edge of the abyss, she closed her eyes and whispered, “No.”


End file.
